


Signed, Sealed, Delivered

by china_shop



Category: White Collar
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Fix-It, Fluff, Kid Fic, M/M, Post-Canon, Reunions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-04
Updated: 2017-06-04
Packaged: 2018-11-08 21:59:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11090778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/china_shop/pseuds/china_shop
Summary: Neal gets a letter. (Post-series, slightly AU.)





	Signed, Sealed, Delivered

**Author's Note:**

  * For [copacet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/copacet/gifts).



> A treat for you. You asked for a fix-it for the series finale. I hope this hits the spot. :-)
> 
> ETA: A million thanks to mergatrude for beta.

1.

It’s late afternoon when Neal arrives home at his apartment building in upper Marais. He’s carrying Chinese take-out, two bottles of cabernet sauvignon, and a bundle of freelance work for the weekend. The corner of an envelope sticks out of his mail slot like a crisp, white pocket square, but Neal’s tired and doesn’t think anything of it. It’s probably a check from the publishing house.

He stuffs it into his portfolio, along with the usual wad of advertising flyers, and lugs everything up four flights of stairs to his studio apartment, where golden light slants through windows warped with age.

When he dumps the papers on the table, the letter surfs out on a small tide of glossy circulars, but it isn’t until he’s poured himself a glass of wine and returns to the table to open his takeout that he sees the FBI seal on the envelope. His heart stops for a second, then starts to race.

It’s been a year since he left. He should have put that life behind him by now, the parole, the hopeless dreams.

Here in Paris, he has this apartment, steady-ish work, even a few friends. He has a favorite café, a tailor, and a particular park bench by the Seine where he likes to sit and watch the tourists. He knows the permanent collections at the Louvre and several of the smaller art museums by heart.

He only reads _The New York Times_ for an hour on Sundays: the news headlines and the social events pages.

The point is, he doesn’t wallow or let himself look back. He’s a new man with a new name. The new heart will follow eventually.

Which doesn’t explain why he snatches up the letter and tears it open, barely stopping to check the name on the front of the envelope (yes, it’s addressed to him, Charles Mitchell at this abode, printed on the White Collar office laser printer, with its distinctive irregularities). Inside there’s a sheet of legal pad that’s been crumpled and smoothed flat again, neatly folded. A post-it note is affixed.

The post-it note is handwritten in all caps and reads: _Caffrey, it’s time to come home. -CJ_ and Neal can hear Jones’ impatience in just those few words. It makes him smile.

Then he unfolds the paper, sees Peter’s scrawled handwriting span the lines, and his eyes sting. There are geometric doodles down the left-hand margin, then a double helix and an object that’s either a hat or a deformed penguin. At the top of the page, some notes about changes to the surveillance budget, and under that, a list; no heading, just:

> 1\. Parole signed off.  
>  2\. Panthers behind bars.  
>  3\. I’m not mad anymore.  
>  4\. His godson’s nearly 6 months.  
>    
>  What else? What are you waiting for?

_What are you waiting for?_ Peter’s a smart guy; he must have figured out the answer. That’s why the paper ended up a crumpled ball in the waste paper basket. That’s why Jones was the one to send it.

If Jones has discovered Neal’s alias and address, there’s no way Peter doesn’t know them too, but not so much as a postcard from him.

Despite himself, Neal lets his fingers drift across the page, then brings it to his nose and inhales, longing for a trace of the past, of Peter, even terrible FBI coffee. It just smells like cheap paper.

And the fact that he’s actually sniffing a discarded doodle, this is why he can’t go back. Because Peter and El have each other and a child. Neal missed his chance to make a move. It’s too late.

Except. Apparently he has a godson. And Peter hasn’t given up on him. Peter will never give up. That is the truth that breaks Neal’s heart wide open.

 

2.

Saturday afternoon. The kid’s asleep upstairs. El’s sacked out on the couch with the baby monitor. Peter is exhausted too, but it’s his turn to cook so he rouses himself from the armchair, gathers the dirty coffee mugs dotted around the room and heads for the kitchen to make a plan for dinner. He can’t cater on autopilot like El does.

There’s a knock at the door.

Peter lunges for it before whoever it is can knock again and wake El or the baby. He opens it, already shushing, and then all the air is punched out of him. The mugs he was holding crash to the ground, and he barely notices.

Neal is on their goddamned front doorstep, an overnight bag slung over his shoulder. Neal or the ghost of Neal.

He looks as shocked as Peter feels. What right does he have to be shocked? Peter grabs him and hauls him close, heedless of the crunch of broken crockery under their feet. He feels solid against Peter’s body. If it’s a hallucination, Peter’s really losing it this time.

Then Neal’s arms come up too, and he hugs back, and Peter can’t let go now, has to keep Neal’s face pressed to his shoulder, has to because if Peter looks him in the eye, he doesn’t know what he’ll do.

Dimly, Peter’s aware that Satchmo is barking, that El is saying something, that he’s standing in the doorway of his house, in full view of the street, hugging Neal Caffrey, and neither of them has said a word to each other in over a year.

Neal burrows closer, his cheek scraping Peter’s neck. He hasn’t shaved. He smells achingly familiar. Peter’s squeezing him so tight his leather jacket creaks, and the hug’s gone on long enough now that Peter’s plausible deniability is starting to run out: can he pass this off as platonic?

That’s the thought that makes him let go, step back, avert his gaze.

Neal releases him at once, no objections.

Thankfully, El distracts them both by dragging Neal and his bag inside the second he’s free and throwing her arms around his waist. “I am so mad at you,” she mutters into his chest, and he drops his bag and holds her, his eyes shut, his cheek pressed to the top of her head, his face twisted as if it hurts him.

“Sorry. I’m sorry.” His first words.

“We missed you,” says El.

Peter shuts the world outside and leans against the door, watching them. He’s running on about four hours of interrupted sleep but he feels fully awake for the first time in months. And grateful beyond measure that all this disturbance hasn’t woken the baby.

Finally El and Neal separate. Neal straightens his clothing, composes himself into a picture-perfect prodigal son. “I’m sorry,” he says again. “When did you figure it out?”

“About three days after you left,” says Peter.

El rolls her eyes at Neal. “He is a detective.”

Neal lets out a soft _ha!_ then sobers. “I’m glad. I didn’t like to think of you…”

“Grieving?” supplies Peter, after a pause. Missing him had been nearly as bad. Messier. Hope lurking in the periphery, impossible to banish. He scowls. “We’ve had our hands too full to sit around moping anyway.”

Neal flinches but steps gamely into the living room, looks around, bends to pat Satch who’s come over to say hi. “I can see that. You’re parents now.”

“Yeah.” Peter refuses to believe that the kid is the real reason Neal ran, or the reason he didn’t come back sooner. Might have been an excuse, though.

He follows Neal’s gaze around the room, the toys and papers and baby paraphernalia. They’ve grown accustomed to a certain level of chaos, and Peter is long past feeling defensive about it, instead goes to find a dustpan and brush to clean up the shards of coffee cup, leaving El to keep an eye on Neal.

 

3.

Neal is back. El can hardly believe it, keeps wanting to touch him to check. She folds her arms.

Months ago, long before Davy was born, she and Peter talked about what might happen, what they wanted; they even teased each other about their two true loves, but now Neal’s here, none of it seems real. He stayed away so long, she convinced herself he was happy out there in the world without them. That the only thing to do was move on.

Now she doesn’t know what to think.

In the entryway, Peter starts cleaning up the breakages. She knows he won’t say anything, can’t start anything. His former role as Neal’s handler is still holding him back. This time, it’s up to her to investigate.

“So,” she says, “no more anklet.”

Neal tugs lightly at his pants leg to show off his bare ankle. “No more anklet.”

“You ever miss it?” She tries to keep her words light and ironic.

He shrugs. “It was hell on the lines of my suit pants, so…”

“Neal,” Peter interrupts, dustpan in hand, “you want a drink? Coffee, beer, wine?”

“Coffee would be great.” So polite, all of them so stilted. El wants to bang their heads together, including her own.

She’s actually grateful when sounds of stirring come through the baby monitor.

“Come and meet Davy. Or Baby Suit, as Moz keeps calling him.” She beckons Neal to the stairs, wanting to introduce him to the newest member of their family. Hoping it will break the ice, or at least provide some clue to what he’s thinking.

Neal follows her upstairs, pausing halfway up to peruse the new photos on the wall.

The noises from the cracked open nursery door aren’t urgent yet, and El hesitates outside. Screw investigating; better to jump straight to interrogating. What have they got to lose?

“Look,” she says, “I get why you had to leave. Not just the Pink Panthers. You had to find yourself, right? Find the new you.”

Neal looks at her. “That’s not why.”

“Then what? What brought you back?” There has to be a reason he’s been away so long. A reason that he’s here.

“I’m back because I couldn’t forget. And I found out Peter couldn’t forget either.” He shifts his weight. “If you want me to leave…”

El steps closer, half holding her breath. What if this is just about Peter? What will she do then? “I really don’t want you to leave.”

“Before you say that, there’s something you should know. Two things. And I needed to tell you in person.” He looks like he’s trying to summon one of those flashy smiles, to smooth bravado over the situation and make it easy, and it won’t come together. But his gaze stays steady. “I don’t want to hide anymore: I’m in love with Peter.”

“Oh, sweetie.” A lump the size of the Chrysler Building rises in El’s throat.

“And I’m in love with you. Both of you, you're both so... everything. But I don’t want to complicate your life. If you want me to go, I’ll go.” It’s the second time he’s offered, and El grabs his arm, just in case he follows through before she can explain.

Her heart is pounding so hard, she can hardly speak. “Neal, Peter and I have been crazy about you for years. Didn’t you know? That’s why Peter could never send you back to prison, even when you stole things, even when you ran. It would have broken both our hearts.”

“I don’t do that anymore,” he says, and she grins.

“We know.” She opens the nursery door wide so he can see the walls decorated with his art, all illustrations from the three children’s books he’s worked on over the last eight months, the pages bright and whimsical. There’s the parrot pirates, the kite over Paris, the family of octopuses. Each one carefully framed.

Even the onesie Davy’s wearing has one of the octopuses printed on it, courtesy of Mozzie.

Neal’s jaw drops. El goes to pick up her son, bouncing him to quiet him. “Hey, there, babycakes. Hungry? I’ll feed you in a sec. First, you have to meet your Uncle Neal. Neal, this is Davy.”

Neal lets Davy grab his finger, and his eyes soften. “Hey, little guy. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“I’d say it’s about time.” Peter’s in the doorway, carrying two cups of coffee and one of tea, as if they’re going to stand around in the nursery and drink them. None of them are at the top of their game.

Neal inhales shakily. “Peter. Why didn’t you call? Write? I would have been back here in a second.”

“If you love someone, set them free.” Peter’s expression is rueful and oh, so fond. “I was your handler. You know I had to let you go.”

“I thought I was setting you free.”

“Never.”

Neal spreads his arms, then drops them to his sides. “Well, I came back, so you know what that means, right?”

El’s heart thumps. This is actually happening. She wasn’t sure how she’d feel, if it ever did: excited or nervous or jealous. In fact, it’s a mix of everything, but shot through with a fierce relief that takes her breath away. There’s so much to figure out, but for now it’s enough that Neal came back, he loves them. 

“If you come back, you’re ours.” She grabs the sleeve of his sweater and pulls him down to kiss her, Davy between them. His lips are careful and sweet, sending an electric current through her that weakens her knees.

He pulls back and presses another kiss to her temple. “El, God, you have no idea.”

Then Peter moves in. He’s put the coffee cups down somewhere, and his hands land on Neal’s shoulders. “I thought I was going crazy.”

“I know.” Neal runs his knuckles along the line of Peter’s chin. “Jones sent me a list you’d made.”

Peter colors. “He didn’t. Which one?”

“How many were there?” Neal grins a little. “Now I’m curious.”

“Dozens,” says Peter, bending to kiss him, speaking his next words against Neal’s lips. “Maybe hundreds.”

El shivers at the sight, feels a low ache when Neal wraps his arms around Peter’s neck and kisses him harder, murmurs, “I missed you too.”

This is going to be great.

 


End file.
